Dying to Read

by John Elliott

  Another item of gossip concerned a posting by Milly and Linda on You Tube, which, when brought to the attention of management, had occasioned official warnings. After some initial difficulty he located it on the laptop he had brought with him. The clip was entitled, ‘Happy Birthday Professor’. Singing in wobbly unison, ‘Happy birthday, dear professor,’ Milly and Linda then continued with a bit of mild girl on girl action ending with a pretend spanking for Miss Linda, as Milly addressed her.

  Content unto the moment thereof — discontent not being a state he permitted himself — Jerzy bade a second silent adieu to the Lincoln International Hotel by returning a neighbouring cup to its saucer and placing them both on a side plate, thus shortcutting minor duties which would have to have been done later by someone else. His wife, Bettina, would have inevitably pulled a face, but it was too late now for him to change. Things had to be ordered before they could be put away.

  Once back at Feltham he brought Pat and Hamish up to date, noticing that from time to time Pat gave him lingering looks, while Hamish seemed to be enjoying some private joke. So much for self expression, he thought, although so far neither a guv nor a Turo had been uttered. ‘I like to see an attentive and a happy team,’ he said, ‘but attentive to what and happy with what is the question I must ask. Pat, have I got something on my face the way you keep staring at me?’

  ‘No guv.’ She bit her tongue. ‘Sorry. Jerzy.’

  ‘And whatever’s tickling you, Hamish, I’m sure it’s not Augustin Cox.’

  ‘No.’ Hamish set his countenance in a more professional demeanour, banishing daydreams of Geraldine at Whitton for the second time. This was not the cue to bring her on stage. ‘I’m with the websites. I have been following.’

  ‘Good, because I want you to follow them up, especially the club gatherings. I don’t feel Pat or myself are the right applicants for this particular spot of semi-undercover work.’

  Pat smirked. ‘Someone’s botty is going to be smacked, and these things have a habit of getting around. Become part of the folklore, you might say.’

  Hamish blenched. ‘Couldn’t we simply bring Milly Simpson in? We’ve got her details.’

  ‘In situ,’ Jerzy said. ‘One always learns and understands more in the places our victim frequented. The people he mixed with. Those who held him dear and those who wished him dead. I’ve confidence in you.’

  There was no more to be said. Pat’s smirking continued. Websites and their associated postings and blogs were scanned. Hamish, travelling incognito under the guise of Jocky Wilson, tiptoed out of the darts’ practice room and revealed himself as willing at last to meet face to face, if that was the appropriate expression, more experienced practitioners of his so far only fantasised proclivities. As chance or mischance had it, the next gathering of the group Milly Simpson headed was the following evening in, of all places, Wandsworth. He phoned Geraldine’s mobile. Yes she would come to Whitton around eight. That was alright then, great in fact, but his previous ardour was somewhat dimmed by the prospect of the day after. Red hand or red arse? He hoped he wouldn’t have to tell her. Whatever happened he must always keep Pat and her apart. The aforementioned, in confirmation of his sticky situation, accompanied a satisfied smirk this time with an emphatic thumbs up.

  2. Wandsworth Social Gathering

  ‘Look, there’s an empty sofa over there. We can snatch it if we’re quick.’ The American young woman, Celia, caught Hamish’s hand on the evening he had been dreading and drew him past the other chatting couples. ‘Now that’s better,’ she said as they sat down. ‘I’m in the mood to play. Are you? All I know so far from your name-tag is you’re a jockey. Bit tall for the saddle professionally I’d say, but tall I like, and the riding crop idea would certainly get me going.’

  Soon realising his attempts to explain the rather more earth-bound nature of the one-time Scottish darts champion, whose first name, without the interloping e, he had borrowed for the occasion, compared to a man of equestrian pursuits, were failing to register on a closed mind, he gave way and was quiet while his new companion chatted on.

  ‘So I can guess from that you’re a top which is good because I’m a bottom myself. Well I say that, but if truth were ever told in Idaho I kinda hanker to switch if I could find the right man or perhaps girl.’ She reached over and clasped his hand, her eyes big and lustrous. ‘But I’m talking too much and I see you’re more chiselled in the strong silent type. That’s why I need to be corrected for babbling on. It’s so easy for me to fall back in a brattish attitude.’

  Whack! Whack!

  Hamish, trying hard to keep up with the gist of her remarks of bottoms, tops and switches, didn’t reply at once because, as he felt his eyes widen, a man at an adjoining settee had positioned a mature-looking woman across his knee, had lifted her skirt and had administered a couple of resounding smacks to her navy blue knickered rump.

  ‘Old fashioned English school discipline,’ Celia said approvingly. ‘It’s still very popular with us foreign migrants.’

  The angry school-teacher or headmaster, whatever role he was fulfilling, had by now eased the knickers half way down his capsized companion’s thighs. More vigorous slaps, cheek by cheek, rendered her flesh pink. Hamish blanched. Strong and silent he might appear to be on the exterior, but inside a quiet persistent voice was droning help. Pull yourself together, he told himself. Remember you’re here on duty no matter what happens. Observe. Question. Report findings. Theoretically he was trained for it, although Hendon seemed to have omitted this particular scenario. ‘I’m a policeman,’ he whispered almost but not quite inaudibly.

  ‘Of course you are, sweetie pie.’ Celia excitedly snuggled closer to him, her nails digging through the cloth of his trouser leg. ‘I know the etiquette here suggests role-play should be kept for private occasions, but as long as we don’t snitch it’s okay to have some fun. So here goes.’ She released her grip and straightened her back, dropping her eyes submissively to the orange roundels of the carpet. ‘Rather than pay my fine, officer, couldn’t you deal with me here and now. I’m sure a sharp lesson would more than make me think twice about breaking the law again.’

  Several heads turned towards her. Fingers were raised to lips. ‘Sorry,’ she mouthed then added quietly to Hamish. ‘When you’re not actively playing you’re supposed to watch and be quiet.’ Granted this momentary respite, Hamish silently thanked the powers that be from the Commissioner down to the Federation rep.

  The spanked woman was now kicking her legs and moaning spasmodically. ‘I’ve told you about whining before,’ her chastiser said. He fumbled around at his side and extracted a floppy looking short leather strap. ‘You need a stronger reminder.’ Three sharp cracks on her already reddened bum elicited an agonised yelp. From another, just beginning, across-the-lap correction — this time of male by female — taking place on a chair in the far corner came an as yet intermittent mild descant.

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ exclaimed Hamish. ‘I was prepared for what might happen, but I thought it would be in private rooms.’ Undercover work, even if termed semi by Jerzy, was proving much worse than he had imagined.

  ‘It’ll soon be over now,’ Celia whispered. ‘I know them both. They don’t like it too serious. Observing is quite proper as long as it’s done quietly. Rules are there for a reason, and Milly makes sure anyone who breaks them isn’t told of future parties. There are private rooms, but you have to be a full member and there’s a kind of pecking order. You’re completely new aren’t you ? I know it’s difficult to ditch your inhibitions for the first time, but this is why the scene exists and there are places like this. Milly and the other organisers like her understand. It’s a social service.’

  ‘I really am a policeman. I’m not playing at being one.’ Hamish decided in light of the situation to fess up although the truth was he was making an almighty hash of things. ‘I know it’s difficult to realise.’ He stopped because now Celia was showing decided signs of alarm.

  �
�You’re not surveillance for immigration are you? I’ve got a work permit and…’

  He cut her short. ‘No. Nothing like that. And I’m not a pervy voyeur either,’ he hastily added. ‘Someone connected with the scene was murdered, and I want to catch whoever did it. I need information which I assure you will be in confidence. I want to be as up front as possible.’

  ‘Well you’ve completely wasted my time. Okay, because you were new I latched on to you, but you’ve come here under false pretences and somebody ought to give you a damn hard spanking.’ She got to her feet.

  Hamish raised his hand in appeal then realising the gesture might be misinterpreted quickly dropped it back to his thigh. ‘I’m sorry I’ve upset you. I didn’t mean to. The murdered man was Augustin Cox. I know he was a camera man or did the lighting on spanking videos.’ He mentally thanked Geraldine for the extra bits of information she had divulged during her wonderful visit to Whitton. ‘I’ve heard he was a top, in your words.’

  Celia made a grimace of distaste. ‘They’re not my thing those kind of videos. Nor of the majority here. People who watch them are different It’s still secret and masturbatory to them. We prefer real play. We’re not ashamed of what we like.’

  ‘I believe Augustin came here or else to other venues where Milly was.’

  ‘Never heard of him. Lots, like you, use pseudonyms. You should have gone straight to Milly instead of keeping disappointing me.’

  Hamish, ignoring her taunt, tried Augustin’s description, but she shook her head and defiantly walked away to join the small throng at the refreshment table in the adjoining open plan kitchen.

  Meanwhile the beating nearby finally stopped. Knickers restored to their normal place, her dress again covering them, the woman sat on her teacher’s lap wrapped in a hug. Disentangling herself, she beamed in seeming triumph towards the now disinterested spectators. The other spanking in the corner, however, continued unabated.

  A feeling of intense melancholy suddenly seized Hamish. I’m not only a bungling misfit here, he thought, but why ever did I become a policeman in the first place? Other young people had left Corby to go to London, not only London and the rest of Britain but to Australia, New Zealand or Canada, as far as their wishes carried them without them deciding to join the police force. Yet that was what he had immediately done in spite of his family’s misgivings. The remnants of their Scottish socialism, fired by memories of the miners’ strike, made them regard the polis, the fuzz, the filth, whatever epithet they chose to use, as the enemy within. While all along, for his last year at school he had nurtured this secret vision of himself in his future life not as a copper in the local constabulary blundering in and out of squad cars but as a plain-clothes detective in the big metrop working on a murder case. Well here he was doing just that. God he had been methodical. He had followed all the right steps. So careful not to exceed the norm. Generally accepted if not exactly liked by his colleagues. Assiduous and diligent in the eyes of his superiors, and yet, as was happening now, there had been moments of niggling doubt when he asked himself, why have you done this? Why on earth have you made this your life’s work? Jerzy cared. At heart he knew he didn’t. At least not to the same extent. Pat, beneath all her banter and her family commitments, which he didn’t have, also got more out of the job than he did. And then there was Geraldine — the wonderful, life-affirming Geraldine — searching the shelves in West Hampstead in order to find the right book which miraculously held the key to who had murdered Augustin Cox and why. But might it instead be the book which contained him and his plight? The reading of which brought disillusion to her eyes.

  A woman and a man hovered meaningfully in front of him. He got up with a sheepish smile and vacated the sofa. They obviously had more immediate need of it than him. Rejoining the fringe of those at the refreshments table, where Celia now was absent, he listened to polite offers to spank or be spanked and the equally polite agreements or demurrals. What strange rituals Wandsworth concealed! The accepted norm here could not be further from his own. These reflections maintained his forlorn and self-pitying air until he snapped to attention when three newcomers strode into the room provoking a sustained murmur of greeting.

  The ash-blonde partially covered in a classic little black dress, stockings and black high-heeled shoes he recognised from the photos they had as Milly Simpson. Next to her, also dressed in black, but this time in an extreme retro-Goth fashion, was a taller and younger woman whose pallid white made-up face contrasted dramatically with her vibrant purple lipstick and her bejewelled metal eyebrow studs. Arm in arm with her was someone else Hamish already knew: none other than the bronzed-faced, silver-haired Professor Euan Donald. In which guise had he come tonight, Hamish wondered. Alexander the Great with his bodyguard or the cynic philosopher, Diogenes, fearing no place or no man?

  ‘Jocky,’ said Euan Donald affably, noticing the designation of the nametag. ‘Do I detect a post-ironist fellow countryman?’

  ‘Which country would that be?’ replied Hamish looking from the daubed smear of the tall Goth’s mouth to the assured stance of Milly Simpson.

  ‘Why, Caledonia stern and wild, man. The stern part being its main attraction.’

  The Goth suppressed a half formed giggle. Her fingers squeezed the professor’s upper arm. Meanwhile Milly moved aside to acknowledge the hellos of obviously returning guests.

  ‘Our hostess with the mostest,’ Euan Donald continued, glancing admiringly as she adeptly mingled and networked with one knot of people after another. ‘She has the knack of rendering our childish perversion into the most natural social intercourse.’

  ‘Perversion?’ queried the Goth, shaping her lips into a fetching pout.

  ‘Mmm. Let’s drop the ‘per’ then and simply say it’s our ‘version’. What do you think, Jocky?’

  Hamish didn’t reply directly but asked, ‘Have you known her long?’ He had a strong inkling that here was the professor whose birthday Milly and Linda Parks had celebrated on You Tube.

  ‘I take it you refer to Milly and not this demonic creature who temporarily has me in thrall.’ His companion’s talons once more pinched his flesh. ‘Yes I’ve attended her gatherings for quite some time.’

  ‘I knew a friend of hers, Augustin Cox.’ Hamish took the opportunity to press his reason for being here home.

  It was Professor Donald’s turn to make a face. ‘Unfortunate incident,’ he said. ‘There are standards of conduct, especially here, and those who flout them are not welcome. It took time, but Milly eventually saw she had made a mistake and rightly excluded him. Sine die, as they say in sporting circles.’

  ‘Someone else did the same. He’s permanently excluded by murder.’

  ‘So I believe. Somewhere in the outer regions of Heathrow beloved of J G Ballard.’

  The reference to Hamish’s favourite author did not go unnoticed. ‘Bedfont.’

  ‘Heard of but never visited I’m afraid. Fascinating though all this is, Jocky, it concerns the past, and Sandra here is becoming impatient. We came with a particular reason, as I’m sure you did, and as the sages have noted, time is not only our enemy but a thief.’ He gave a slight nod to indicate the conversation was at an end. The Goth, taking the hint, tightened her grip and led him unceremoniously towards the door.

  Something else had lurked, Hamish reflected, beneath the professor’s easy urbanity What exactly? Simple irritation that Augustin’s name had been brought up? A wish to quickly drop the subject? There had been more than a trace of contempt in his voice. Sine die. A typically donnish expression which might be a euphemism for something more radical. These thoughts intensified as Milly rejoined him.

  ‘Still on your own? Finding it a bit difficult? Don’t worry I can soon sort that. There’s no need to be shy.’

  Hamish decided to strike while the iron was hot. ‘Augustin told me about these dos.’

  She looked at him keenly. ‘You knew Augustin? Where did you meet?’

  ‘At his flat in Bed
font.’ At least that was true in a round about way. ‘And at La Perla Escondida.’ He raised his voice as the sounds of three other consensual larrupings were now taking place in the living room. ‘We liked the same Latin music.’ He tried as best he could to retain a nonchalant but interested demeanour.

  Milly glanced at the renewed activity appreciatively. ‘A rather slow start tonight, but now we’re underway. I’m sure I can find you, if not a soul mate, at least a willing accomplice. There’s someone over there I’m positive you’d be glad to meet.‘ She placed a gentle hand on his upper arm.

  ‘Augustin was crazy about you, you know.’

  ‘Who told you that?’ The tone of her voice sharpened.

  ‘He did.’ This was the full agent provocateur stuff but what the heck. Jerzy wanted him to get in situ, as he’d said, to get the feel of relationships, uncover the possible motives for murder. Admissible evidence, which hopefully would come later, was another matter entirely.